A First Time For Everything
by Potrix
Summary: One single kiss leads to something neither Sherlock nor Greg had ever dreamed of having; the most unusual relationship London has ever seen. But Sherlock doesn't do feelings and Greg isn't a man without baggage himself. It takes everything - and a bit more - out of them to hold on to what they have together without breaking apart individually. Sherstrade / Angst / Fluff / Smut
1. Kissing

**A/N:** I've wanted to write a Sherstrade story for ages, so _ta-da!_, here you go. I fear that it will be mostly angst for a while, but there are going to be some sweet and tender moments squeezed in as well, I promise. And I'm a sucker for happy endings, so there will be one of those...probably.

Anyway, please enjoy and remember, reviews make your writer happy!

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**Chapter Summary:** Relieving tension can be fun. But those damned feelings!

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**Warnings:** swearing and snogging (a wonderful combination, don't you think?)

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**Kissing**

John, saint that he was, patiently listened to Sally Donovan's rant about his flatmate, inserting a sympathetic _'Oh, dear.'_ or a scandalised _'No!'_ at the appropriate points in the conversation in the hope of getting it over with as quickly as possible. He idly wondered, not for the first time, if the sergeant had some sort of secret crush on the detective and worked out her frustration over the obvious rejection by being an insufferable, snappy cow. Really, it did make a lot of sense, if one thought about it, for example-

"Sherlock, for fuck's sake!"

With a sigh and an apologetic smile directed at Sally, John turned just in time to see Sherlock stalk away around the corner and Greg throw up his hands in exasperation before following after the younger man, grumbling angrily under his breath.

"See? That's _exactly_ what I just told you! He _always_ does that!" Sally exclaimed, half triumphantly and half seriously irritated, grabbing John's sleeve to turn him back around, and lunged into another tirade about Sherlock's insensitive and completely and utterly inappropriate behaviour at crime scenes.

John plastered a smile on his face and figured that, for once, Sherlock would simply have to suffer through Greg's scolding on his own. Maybe it would even do him some good.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

_"What?"_ the man in question growled and whirled around to glare at Lestrade - who was being really very unreasonable today - only to collide with the Inspector and stumble back over the kerb and lose his footing. A car honked, tires screeched and Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable crash.

Instead of the expected pain, however, he found himself pressed against the Detective Inspector's chest a mere moment later, strong hands grasping and fingers digging into his shoulders almost painfully.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, are you okay?" Lestrade asked and Sherlock, his eyes still pressed shut, suddenly realised how close the other man was by the warm breath ghosting over his face.

"Yes, fine." he croaked and-...when exactly had he curled his hands into the DI's jacket?

Lestrade mad an unconvinced sound, shaking the detective lightly. "Look at me. Open your eyes."

Sherlock complied, albeit slowly, and risked a glance at the silver-haired man, who was looking at him worriedly, brows drawn together into a slight frown. Sherlock's first instinct was to reach out and smooth the wrinkles away with his fingers, or, preferably, his lips or-

"Absolutely fine." he insisted and took a step back, or at least tried to do so, but his body seemed to have stopped obeying him during the last minute or so. Bugger.

"You're acting really weird, you know, even for your standards." Lestrade informed him and tilted his head, one hand coming up to cup Sherlock's cheek and turn his face a bit more into the light to check his pupils - old habits died hard, it seemed. "What's up with you lately?"

_'Oh, nothing, Inspector, I simply realised that I would very much enjoy to throw you down on the next best flat surface and have my wicked way with you. Which would be a disaster for our working relationship, given that most of your team, hell, the entire Yard, already hate me with a searing passion and me coming to your crime scenes isn't entirely legal in the first place. Imagine what your superiors would have to say about you buggering your consultant.'_

"Sherlock? You still with me, mate?"

_'My mind hasn't worked properly in weeks, You've invaded every single cell of my brain and made yourself at home there. I can't stop thinking about you, how your hair spikes up after you run your hands through it, how the middle and index fingers of your left hand start twitching whenever I push you over the brink, how you smile at my deductions even though you want to throttle me for insulting your incapable team of trained monkeys, how you look at me like I'm the most precious thing in the world, how you constantly worry about me, how I can see in the lines around your eyes how afraid you are that I'm going to leave again, how you never leave, no matter what unspeakable things I do, how-'_

"If you don't say something in the next twenty seconds I'm gonna call John or an ambulance. Can you even hear me?"

_'This is why intelligent people should not engage in any sort of relationship, physical or emotional. They render you stupid, turn you into an embarrassing, babbling mess. I don't do relationships, I don't do feelings. Why do you insist on staying? Why won't you get out of my head and leave me be? Why are you doing this to me? Why can't I stop you? Why am I falling-'_

"Sherlock!"

The curly-haired man shook himself and blinked and Lestrade let out a sigh of relief at seeing the detective come back to himself. Short-lived relief, as it turned out when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"Lestrade, I-" he began, cut himself off and groaned in frustration. With a jerk he dislodged the Detective's grip and made to turn, only to have Lestrade grab him again.

"Talk to me. Please?" There was a pleading edge to the man's voice, his eyes filled with honest concern and how in heaven's name was one supposed to resist the temptation of that...that..._adorableness?_

"Sod it." Sherlock said, determined, and put his hands on either side of Lestrade's face

"Wha- _mmpf!_"

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was kissing him. Quite passionately, in fact. Mind-blowingly terrific. Surprisingly gentle. Amazingly possessive. And Greg wasn't kissing back. _Oh god_, he wasn't reciprocating and Sherlock was pulling away and that simply would not do.

With a growl, Greg chased Sherlock's retreating mouth and brought their lips back together. One hand found itself on the detective's waist, thumb stroking firm circles over a bony hip, the other was thrust into those ridiculous, silky curls, letting them run between his fingers.

Sherlock gasped in surprise and Greg, deciding that daring was the way to go here, sucked the younger man's lower lip between his own and nipped playfully, earning himself a low and deliciously sexy moan that rumbled through their joined chests. And then he was pushed backwards, the two of them more stumbling than walking due to their apparent inability to stop touching, until his back hit the brick wall of a book shop and _great_, now he was snogging a bloke over a decade younger than him out in public and possibly in front of half of his team and he couldn't bring himself to give one single, lousy _fuck_.

When they finally parted for air, Greg let his head fall back against the wall, panting in quick, shallow breaths that turned into some kind of desperate, needy sobs when Sherlock attacked his throat, sucking just above his wildly bobbing Adam's apple. He felt long, slender fingers sneak under his jacket and run over his chest, his sides, his belly and then settle on his hips, squeezing.

"This-" Greg tried, his voice failing him on accord of stunningly handsome consulting detective currently nuzzling into his neck.

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted and came back up, tensing and seizing the DI up with those impossible and usually cold, hard eyes which were now filled with so much uncertainty and vulnerability that Greg stopped breathing for a moment, completely taken aback by the amount of raw and pure emotion.

"Come back here." he managed after a long moment and Sherlock practically melted against him and into their next kiss, this one slow and tender, the 'exploring a new partner' and 'shit, this can never, ever end' kind of kiss which completely stole your breath away. It took more self-control than Greg ever thought he'd have to keep his eyes open and watch, brushing his fingertips over the blush on the younger man's cheeks, tracing them along his cheekbones and up over his brow and into his hair to curl around the dark strands and tug, gently but insistently directing Sherlock to tilt his head. Their noses brushed and Sherlock giggled - down to earth _giggled!_ - against his lips and Greg honestly believed he was about to burst from the sheer, impossible amount of affection he felt for the infuriating genius in his arms.

Their partnership, for the lack of a more suitable term, had been strained ever since Sherlock had waltzed back into Greg's life two months ago - or rather; broken into the man's flat in the middle of the night to demand a distraction, because he'd been so dreadfully bored and, oh yes, '_Hi there, I'm back from the dead!'_. Greg had shouted and thrown things until he'd been too exhausted to go on, which was when he'd pulled Sherlock into a hug, told him how fucking glad he was to have him back and then promptly thrown him out.

There had been text messages, even a call or two, several visits to the Yard – only stopping once Greg had told them not to let the detective in anymore - nightly break-ins in his flat until the DI had snapped that yes,_ fine_, Sherlock could come work with him again if it stopped him bugging the older man on his time off. Believing your friend dead for two years, and Sherlock was his friend, no matter what the idiot might say about that, and grieving for him couldn't just be forgotten, leaving someone to blame himself for a friend's death and almost drowning in that guilt couldn't just be forgiven.

Oh, and it would have worked fine, all that 'only ever talking to Sherlock during cases and only about work stuff' thing Greg had been doing if it hadn't been for the DI's traitorous heart. Knowing Sherlock for nearly a decade, helping him give up the drugs and get his act together, rushing to his side every single time he'd relapsed, enduring him insulting his intelligence and the competence of his whole team, mourning him for years and still Greg's heart gave a little flutter whenever Sherlock was near. Hiding his feelings for all this time in the belief that he would be brushed off in that arrogant way, be ridiculed and made fun of for his stupid little crush and now Sherlock was here and _holy shit_, Greg could feel how much the younger man wanted him, the evidence pressing against his hip, hard and hot.

A sudden surge of _this can't be real_ caused him to tighten his hold on the detective and kiss him deeper, savouring and storing away every detail he could, because surely this was a onetime thing. Surely Sherlock wasn't _really_ interested in some washed-up, middle-aged, divorced cop who was growing greyer by the day and getting a bit softer around the middle, barely managing to get his arse up for a run every other week. Greg whimpered and clutched at the younger man, not wanting this, whatever spur of the moment thing it was, to end when it had only just begun. He didn't want to let go again so soon, he _needed_ to have more, just a little more before he got his heart broken beyond repair.

And then Sherlock pulled away again and _fucking damn it_, he'd cocked it up. But the curly-haired man licked his lips, eyes fixed on Greg's face, and smiled. "Greg." he whispered and moved in again, a gentle press of closed lips this time, lean fingers coming up to his face, carding through his hair and curling around it to keep him in place as if _Greg_ was the one who needed to be convinced to-

"Well, that's one way of relieving the tension."

Sherlock, startled, quickly stepped away and under different circumstances, Greg would have laughed at the look on his face. At the moment, he suspected that he was actually sporting a rather similar expression as he leaned to the right, peering over the detective's shoulder and at a grinning John Watson, hands on his hips, tapping an impatient foot and all.

"John." Sherlock said dumbly, wincing at how husky he sounded and swiftly clearing his throat.

"Sherlock. Greg." John smirked, obviously enjoying the sight of two blushing, fidgeting and very uncomfortable men. The bastard. "Cab's here, in case you're still coming home tonight?"

"Of course I'll be coming home, where else would I go?" Sherlock snapped, back to his normal self, and straightened his coat, turning up the collar.

John held up his hands in defence, lips still twitching. "Just asking. I'll...yeah." he trailed off and turned around, jogging back around the corner to where the taxi was waiting.

"Sherlock-" Greg started, realised he had no idea whatsoever what he was supposed to or even wanted to say and clipped his mouth shut again, letting the famous awkward silence settle over them.

Sherlock didn't turn around to face him, his back rigid and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I'll email you my statement."

"O-okay. Sherlock, I-"

"Good night, Detective Inspector." the younger man said stiffly and walked off, leaving Greg to stare after him and feel like the biggest fucking idiot on the surface of the entire planet, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a slightly painful erection and the dawning realisation that he was absolutely head over heels for a man who was so much out of his league that it wasn't even funny anymore.

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**A/N:** Like? No like? A little like? Since this is my first time writing Greg and Sherlock together, please help me out and share your thoughts. 'kay? Thanks!


	2. Comforting

**A/N: **The second chapter, yay! Please enjoy and review!

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**Chapter Summary: **Without John Watson, England would fall. And Mycroft, well, he _tries_ to help as well.

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**Warnings:** swearing

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**Comforting**

Sherlock was left to his 'ridiculous sulk', as John called it, for three days; ignoring texts and calls, refusing to eat or shower or even leave his bed and burying himself under his quilt every time the former army doctor came to replace the still full plates and cold cups of tea, sighing and asking if, maybe, it would help to have a talk about it.

_It._ It had been the most embarrassing and humiliating experience of Sherlock's life, counting the time Irene Adler had drugged him and that video of him slurring idiotic and completely silly deductions about a man in a bunny suit only he'd been able to see had made its way around the Yard. Worse than the evening in Dartmoor when he'd imagined a demon hound and made a fool of himself in front of John and a room full of diners. Hell, he would rather have Mycroft walk in on him exploring himself again than even think about _it._

But all attempts on deleting _it_ so far had been spectacularly unsuccessful. His mind had decided to put _it_ in a box labelled 'Gregory' and store that box in a specially created room with a sign reading 'Gregory' in a newly designed wing in his mind palace called 'Gregory' and no matter how many times he crushed, burned or tore apart that damned box and demolished, broke down or blew up that sodding wing, it all came back the next time he blinked his eyes. Every single time.

It was as if his own mind was taunting him, dangling _it_ in front of his eyes to ridicule and torment and make him absolutely miserable for the rest of his life - which was definitely not overdramatising the situation, thank you very much.

On day four, John had obviously had quite enough of him and his behaviour, Sherlock realised, when the blonde stormed into his room, yanked open the curtains and flopped down on his bed beside him, positively radiating determination and having his jaw set in his _Captain_ Watson way. Sherlock knew when there was no point in arguing with John, so he sat up and accepted the glass of water, sipping it slowly in order not to let it show just how famished and parched he really was. John was a doctor and would know anyway, but it was about the principle of things and the principle of things was not to let John know how famished and parched he really was.

"This has got to stop." John said, taking the empty glass back to deposit it on the nightstand. "You're being an idiot."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself. "My IQ would suggest that I am, in fact, the opposite of an idiot."

"Fine, you're just acting like one, then." the older man shrugged, pressing a hand to Sherlock's forehead and measuring his pulse, undeterred by the detective swatting at him and grumbling under his breath. He pinched the skin on the back of Sherlock's hand and watched it retreat much too slowly. "Did you drink anything the last three days?"

"I had a glass of water."

"Not counting the glass of water I just forced down your throat."

"You hardly forced it down my throat, I did manage to consume it by myse-"

John groaned and glared, ruffling a hand through his hair. "Stop being deliberately difficult and obtuse. And don't even think about protesting about being called obtuse." he quickly added when Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, raising a stern eyebrow at the man-child next to him.

"Fine." Sherlock snapped and turned away from his friend and onto his side, pointedly staring at nothing in particular.

"You're blowing this way out of proportion, you know."

"And you, as usual, have no idea what you are talking about."

"Ah, insulting me again. Almost back to normal, I see." John teased and Sherlock was glad his back was turned, enabling him to hide the upward twitch of his lips. "And I think that, for once, I do actually know more about a topic than you do."

The detective snorted disagreeably. "Doubtful."

"Sherlock, things like that, they happen all the time between friends. A night out drinking, some emotional crisis, adrenaline from chasing a murder suspect. It doesn't have to be awkward, you know. I'm sure Greg won't say a thing about it, he still feels bad about circulating that video. It didn't mean anything."

Sherlock tensed, involuntarily and only for a second, but of course John chose that exact moment to be observant for once.

"Or did it?" the doctor ventured carefully, poking at Sherlock's ribs - the disadvantage of having been stitched together by the man on countless occasions; he knew most of the ticklish spots on Sherlock's body, even the one on the underside of his left hallux.

"Of course it didn't!" Sherlock sneered, hands clutching at the linen beneath him, crumpling up the soft fabric and turning his knuckles white. "The mere fact that you even consider the possibility that_ it_ meant something is laughable, John! Your intelligence is suffering from the regular intercourse you get up to ever since your engagement. Which won't last, just so you know." The last part sounded childish and sulkily even to his own ears, which he would never admit out loud, but had to recognise as a telltale sign which John would definitely pick up on.

"Sherlock." the older man smiled understandingly, tugging at the detective's shoulder to turn him on his back. He tucked an errand curl behind Sherlock's ear, only wrinkling his nose a tiny bit at the filthy state of it, and Sherlock marvelled once again at how in tune the older man was with himself and what most people would call a very unconventional friendship they had. The first time John had touched him, apart from casual brushes of fingers or careful stitches, Sherlock had recoiled and repeated his 'I consider myself married to my work.'-speech and John had only laughed and explained, once again, that he really wasn't interested in men in that way _at all_ and that some simple physical contact didn't have to entail sexual desire or anything of the sort. Sherlock had found himself agreeing and, over the years, had taken that a step further and developed a habit or crashing on his friend when exhaustion took the better of him, draping himself over the man while watching telly, tucking his freezing toes under John's thighs or - during a few nightmare-riddled and sleepless nights since his return - crawling into his bed and feeling much more secure next to the other man with a strong, protective hand resting on his wrist.

John sometimes grinned and said it was no wonder people kept assuming the two of them were shagging with all the touching and cuddling they did, but Sherlock couldn't care less. People always talked about something. Irritating, dull, predictable idiots. He and John weren't like that, they were friends and they were comfortable with what they had and they didn't care about what the general population considered 'normal' or 'standard' behaviour between two grown males. What he felt for John was almost brotherly, at least he assumed it was, because he'd certainly never felt like that about _Mycroft_, and anyone who took offence to it wasn't worth Sherlock's time anyway.

"You still with me?" John asked softly, now propped up on one elbow to look down at the younger man, and Sherlock realised he'd zoned out a bit and cleared his throat.

"Yes. And I'm fine, John. It's all fine."

"You should talk to Greg."

Sherlock raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Don't you think he deserves to know? The chances of it happening again are pretty slim if you keep ignoring the whole thing and avoiding the man." the doctor pointed out.

"Who said anything about _it_ happening again?"

It was John's turn to quirk an eyebrow and put on his most indulging face. Sherlock hated that face.

"Caring is not an advantage, John, and sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

"There is no 'losing side' when it comes to love, Sherlock."

"There's one for your blog, your readers will eat up that romance-novel-drivel."

John threw up his hands and rolled his eyes, sliding off the bed and moving to the door. "Fine, suit yourself. But if you're still in here feeling sorry for yourself when I get back I'm going to toss out every single one of your mould cultures and stop watering the rust experiment while you're out."

"You wouldn't dare!" Sherlock yelled after him with narrowed eyes. One of the cultures was looking rather promising.

"Try me!"

* * *

**'Join me for a pint? JW'**

**'Absolutely! Usual pub, thirty minutes? GL'**

**'Cheers, mate. JW'**

"Rough day, eh?" John grinned, pulled back the bar stool next to his and patted it invitingly.

"You have no idea." Greg groaned, taking the already ordered beer and downing half of it in one go. "What's it about Christmas season that makes 'em all go bonkers?"

"Prolonged exposure to family." John deadpanned, causing the older man to snort and nod his agreement. "What happened?"

"Series of break-ins with the culprit leaving sock puppets behind as clues. Bloody sock puppets, John! They had those creepy googly eyes 'n everything."

"Sounds like something Sherlock'd have loved to get his hands on." John remarked, casually tracing a drop of moisture along the brim of his glass. "Did you text him? He didn't mention anything."

Greg fidgeted with the little bowl of peanuts, not meeting the doctor's eyes. "We had it under control." he mumbled.

"Ah, and here I thought you were avoiding him after your impromptu make-out session the other day." the blonde drawled, lazily lifted an eyebrow and popped a pretzel into his mouth.

"You're such a bastard." Greg groaned and dropped his head to the bar, running a hand through his hair. "Luring me out with the promise of alcohol only to get the latest gossip about my lack of a sex life."

John shrugged, entirely unapologetic. "I did buy you a pint, so there you go. And I really think you should talk to him."

"And what, pray tell, would I say to him, eh? Do I laugh it off? Apologise?"

"Well, I'd say that depends on where you want this to go."

"Nowhere!" Greg spluttered a bit too quickly and blushed. "Nowhere, it-...it won't, no, it _can't_ happen."

"Why not? 'Cause he's a _he_?" John demanded impatiently, protective instincts kicking in.

"You're kidding?" the silver-haired man gaped, barking out a laugh and shaking his head when John only shrugged again. "I had my sexual identity crisis back in my twenties, that's all sorted. Hell, you don't know about David? Thought everyone did after the last office party." He chuckled at the memory of drunk groping in a supply closet and being discovered by Sally, New Scotland Yard's biggest blabbermouth.

"The 'tall, good-looking bloke with the drop-dead gorgeous smile' from the labs? Yeah, I participate in office gossip." John's lips twitched in amusement as he imagined them together, then he shuddered and scrunched up his face. "Fine, then what is it?"

"Apart from how inappropriate it would be, work-wise and all, he's not like that."

John frowned. "Like what?"

"Sexual?" Greg offered, a little helplessly.

"How would you know?"

"In all the years I've known him, there's never been anyone, he's never shown any interest whatsoever in those kind of things. That's rather telling, don't you think?"

They sat in silence for a while, nursing their respective beers until John spoke up again. "You know him, probably even better than I do. You know how hard he makes it for himself to let people in, to accept their friendship. Why would romance or sexuality be any different? It's an even deeper level of commitment he's not entirely comfortable with in the first place. Some people need a strong emotional bond to feel any sexual desire for another person and now think what would happen if you took one of the most emotionally repressed and unstable men in the entirety of Great Britain and presented him with that precise condition?"

Greg considered this for a moment, but in the end he allowed the point. "Okay, fine. He can't separate sex and romance and he's crap at romance. But still, if that's true, what about you?"

"What about me?" John asked, puzzled.

"Well, you're his best friend, his closest confidant. So you and him, that would make a hell of a lot more sense than him and m-...well, anyone else." Greg only just managed to cover up his almost slip, and not even very convincingly, going by John's knowing look.

"Greg, mate, I can't believe I have to tell this to _you_ of all people, but I'm not actually gay. Or bi or whatever other middle thing there is. John Watson; ladies man through and through." the doctor grinned and the older man rolled his eyes, unable not to chuckle along.

"A tosser is what you are. Poor Mary." Greg teased, having one of the nuts flicked at him. "'Sides, I don't think he's interested. Why would he be?"

"Appalling taste in men?" John offered teasingly, holding up his hands in defence at the other man's mock-offended glare. "Who knows? These things don't follow any rules, they just happen. If you let them, that is. And, being serious here for a moment, Greg; you've fancied the shit out of him even before your divorce was through, so don't pretend you don't want this."

"'Course I bloody do." Greg sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes.

"Look, I don't know what goes on in that massive mind of his, but I know this; he cares about you and he's been absolutely miserable for the last few days." Greg perked up at that, eyebrows disappearing somewhere in his fringe. "Talk to him and see what happens, yeah? You can't leave it like this, for the sake of your work, my sanity and the state of our flat."

"Yeah, I know. I'll sort it, no worries." Greg promised with a weak smile, flagging down the bartender before turning back to John. "Another round?"

"Sure, why not." John smiled back and squeezed the older man's shoulder.

* * *

Sherlock stepped out of the shower an hour after his chat with John and after checking his mould, stumbling into the sitting room and flinging himself down on the sofa with an annoyed "Go away." thrown in the general direction of his chair where Mycroft was sitting, twirling his umbrella and tapping his foot.

"How's _The Work_ going?" Mycroft asked, as usual completely ignoring his brother's dramatics.

"Fine." Sherlock grumbled and pulled the Union Jack pillow over his head in an attempt to tune the older man out.

"You can imagine my surprise when I was presented with the CCTV footage from your last case." the redhead drawled, using his brolly's handle to push away the cushion. Sherlock glared.

"We had an agreement not to talk about our romantic lives, did we not?" the younger man sniffed disdainfully. "And besides, your husband is a snobby, stuck-up Dutch diplomat who only married into the family for money, you can hardly draw comparisons between him and Lestrade."

Mycroft quirked an interested eyebrow when Sherlock actually admitted to anything happening. "You do know how much I worry, brother dear."

"You mean how much you love to meddle?"

"Sherlock-"

"It's nothing, Mycroft, go away!" the younger brother snapped and turned to face the back of the sofa with a dramatic _swish_ of his dressing gown.

"You are allowed to care, Sherlock." Mycroft said quietly, only causing the other man to snort and make a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat.

_"Caring._ Are we forgetting the family motto, brother?" Sherlock sneered angrily. "God knows you've repeated it to me more than enough over the years."

There was a telling moment of silence before Mycroft cleared his throat and got up, pausing at the foot of the sofa. "I didn't think you would listen. You never do." he whispered, which was as close to admitting that he'd been wrong as Mycroft Holmes ever came. Sherlock stayed silent.

With a quick, reassuring brush of his fingers over Sherlock's calf, the older Holmes left.


	3. Sleuthing

**A/N:** Okay, I confess that this is kind of a filler chapter. I won't apologise, though, so yeah. No seriously, I don't particularly like this one, but maybe that's just 'cause I'm excited for the next one - flashbacks everyone, yay!

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**Chapter Summary:** Greg shows some insecurities and Sherlock's a bit of an annoying dick - really, though, Greg and John agree on that one!

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**Warnings:** swearing, violence, mentions of drugs/drug use

* * *

**Sleuthing**

"John, come and have a look at these flecks on her wrist. Candle wax, wouldn't you say?"

Teeth clattering, John ducked out from under Greg's umbrella and sprinted through the rain, crouching down next to his friend and the body to inspect the victim as ordered.

It was astonishing to watch the two of them work, Greg noticed once again. They were in perfect synch, moving around each other with ease, encouraging each other's talents, finishing each other's thoughts and generally completing each other like two halves of a whole. Which caused a tiny spark of jealousy to flare up in Greg's chest, making him grit his teeth and huff out a cloud of irritated breath into the night air.

He was being ridiculous, of course, and he knew it too. John and Sherlock were...beyond description. They simply _were_ and didn't give a crap what kind of assumptions people made about them. Everyone at the Yard, including Greg, had been convinced at one point or another that the two of them were hooking up and deeply in love until John had announced his engagement to Mary Morstan, the new doctor at the surgery he worked at. And even then some people hadn't been convinced, talking behind help up hands about 'poor Mary, acting as a substitute for a dead man' or 'John's obvious yet repressed homosexuality'.

But Sherlock had come back and John had broken his nose and hugged him. He had carved out a spot in his new life for his old friend and his relationship with Mary had persisted and even grown stronger through all of the sudden, mid-nightly and sometimes incredibly dangerous chases around the city. And now they were only weeks and a Christmas holiday away from the wedding, a supposedly most romantic affair in a castle up North with snow and warm chimney fires and copious amounts of mulled wine.

"That's disgusting." John sighed and Greg looked up to see him pinching the bridge of his nose as Sherlock licked the pavement near the woman's right knee.

The detective scrunched up his face in concentration and smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Gun oil." he announced after a moment, rolling his eyes when John gave him his 'absolutely-not!'-stare.

"Oh, excuse me for not feeling the urge to put my tongue anywhere near a dead person to taste out bloody_ oil!_"

"The oil is the most important clue so far, John. How do you even function with that limited brain capacity of yours?" Sherlock groaned, bending down again to sniff at the victim's hair this time.

Greg chuckled to himself and tuned out their bickering. It wasn't like he could follow Sherlock's rapid fire observations and deductions anyway, he'd have to sit the curly-haired bundle of manic energy down later and coax him into giving a statement by distracting him with stupid questions which irritated him into explaining the whole thing in a slower, more sedated pace. He'd become somewhat of a professional in Sherlockology over the years, if he was allowed to say so himself without sounding bigheaded.

He swallowed nervously, wondering if it would be any different this time, after their little snogging stunt from two weeks ago. This was the first case Greg had called Sherlock in on ever since it had happened - probably not exactly what John had meant by 'talking to Sherlock' and 'setting things straight again', but he was trying, all right? He had jumped over his own shadow and texted Sherlock with the details, prepared to deal with any awkwardness or resentment the action might ensue, only to be completely ignored upon the detective's arrival at the scene.

Under normal circumstances, Greg wouldn't have bat an eye at the lack of attention, it was _Sherlock_, after all. Now, though, he couldn't help the fear slowly creeping up on him, the fear that he had tipped that delicate balance between 'friendship' and 'nothing' very much into the latter category. Was the younger man ignoring him because he was disgruntled and confused by what had transpired between them? Or was his mind already somewhere far away, putting puzzle pieces no one else had even seen together, too preoccupied to take proper notice of the people around him? Was he uncomfortable being in close proximity to Greg and refused to acknowledge the older man because of it? Or had he already forgotten about the incident and gone back to being an arrogant, annoying bastard who only ever talked to anyone if it suited him?

John had said Sherlock had been miserable after their kiss - _fine_, their very thorough snog - but why? Greg had tried to see the whole thing logically, he was a police officer and trained to piece clues together, for heaven's sake. And there was so much that spoke for Sherlock having enjoyed it, too; he had initiated the whole thing, _twice_, he had smiled and even giggled and he had definitely been aroused. But then he had gone cold and dismissive, running off without much of a goodbye and without even looking at Greg again. Had he been surprised by his own impulsiveness? Had he been repulsed after realising who he'd just backed up against a wall? Had he been regretting it? Or had he been shy and uncertain? Greg couldn't get the expression of the usually so self-assured, elegant and yes, even smug Sherlock looking utterly open and out of his depth out of his mind. He hadn't imagined or misread that, had he? And surely, with those ridiculous deductive skills of his, Sherlock must have seen that Greg was little more than putty in his hands? An old, lovesick fool.

"John!" Sherlock sounded outraged, jumping up as his 'assistant' walked away, mobile clasped to his ear and one hand over the speaker.

"Sorry, gotta take this."

"Why?"

John shot him his 'you are such an idiot sometimes'-look, somehow making the whole thing seem fond instead of angry. "Because, Sherlock, she is my future wife and I love her and the least I can do is tell her why I won't make our date." With that he turned, hurrying under small canopy a few metres away, shouting over his shoulder; "Go stand with Greg, you're drenched already. You'll catch pneumonia. Again."

Sherlock made some sort of whining noise Greg had previously only heard from small children and generally acted as if everyone was purposefully being annoying and stupid, but did as he was told and came to wait under the silver-haired man's umbrella, phone already in hand and typing away. He might have been trying to appear cross with John - and the general public - but the zealous twinkle in his eyes gave him away.

"Having fun?" Greg chuckled and lowered the umbrella for some privacy. Anderson was already starting to glower in their direction.

"Mm." Sherlock hummed absently, thumbs flying over the small keyboard. A drop of water from his curls hit the display and he sniffed, displeased, but seemed otherwise unbothered that he was dripping wet.

Greg loved seeing him like that, it was a whole different person from the sickly yet no less brilliant junkie he'd met so many years ago. In a sudden surge of affection, he reached out to swipe a blotch of muddy water from the detective's cheek, freezing the moment his hand made contact with Sherlock's skin. He'd done it a thousand times before, putting band aids on him, grabbing his shoulders or arms to keep him from propelling away, supporting him with an arm around his waist when he'd been too weak to walk himself, holding him under the ice cold stream of the shower when he'd been feverish and barely conscious yet this, _this_ was different. Greg's fingers were tingling, his head was buzzing and everything around him vanished out of his mind, leaving only the man next to him and bringing him into sharp focus.

And then Sherlock seemed to snap out of his thoughts and lifted his head to meet Greg's eyes, his expression somewhere between unsure and afraid, one eyebrow lifted in an obvious question. So Greg smiled, probably the happiest and most honest smile he'd smiled in ages, and brushed his thumb back and forth over that ridiculous cheekbone, stroking, _caressing._

He watched as Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, leaning into the contact for a short moment before turning his face and pressing a lingering kiss to Greg's palm. He hummed and nosed along the scar from a particularly nasty pub fight in Greg's teens, his own hand coming to rest lightly over the older man's. With another brief press of warm lips, Sherlock carefully lowered both their hands and squeezed once before ducking away and meeting an approaching John halfway, waving his phone and gesturing wildly.

John nodded, praise falling from his lips, and Sherlock looked delighted, heading to the nearby street to hail a cab with his superhuman cab-hailing-skills. The doctor lingered and once he was sure the younger man was gone, he met Greg's gaze and quirked an eyebrow. Greg shrugged a little helplessly, but something in his face must have looked promising, because John grinned and gave him a thumbs-up before running after his flatmate.

* * *

"Sherlock, if I let you do this, if I let you come along on the stake-out, you have to _promise_ me that you won't do anything stupid like run off or get yourself harmed or-"

"Spare me, Lestrade! It will be fine."

Well, that hadn't exactly been a promise, Greg thought with a sigh as the detective wandered off, but he'd take what he could get out of the infuriating genius. And not just concerning this, but in every sense of it, he realised and closed his eyes, taking a few calming breaths. He was so royally screwed.

* * *

It wasn't fine. Sherlock had run off and probably - most likely - gotten himself harmed. Or was about to. One of the two, Greg was fairly sure about it.

"Bloody Sherlock." he grumbled quietly, service weapon in hand and ears straining to pick up a sign of the drug manufacturers turned consulting detective kidnappers. Next to him John grunted what sounded like his agreement, something along the lines of; 'If _they_ don't kill him, _I_ will!'

The two of them crept along the dark corridor, carefully checking the old, long-abandoned class rooms as they passed, all of them empty. Greg wasn't sure if to take that as a good or as a bad sign. His skin itched with the need to find Sherlock and get everyone to safety, to apprehend the head of a drug smuggling ring the Met had been after for several months now. He shot a brief look at John, who was rigid with tension, gun hand twitching. With a sigh - where the fuck had his professionalism gone? - he nodded at the doctor's jeans.

"Take it out."

John startled, but got himself under control impressively fast. "W-what?"

Greg graced him with his very own 'I am not an idiot!'-glare and John, lips pursed, pulled his Browning from the waistband of his trousers.

The younger man raised a questioning eyebrow and Greg shrugged one shoulder and smiled drily. "Could be dangerous. Try not to fire it. Intimidation only, if possible."

John nodded and they started moving again until a slight and barely visible beam of light caused them both to stop dead in their tracks. It came from under the door at the very end of the hall, one of those with a bit of that milky glass in the middle. There were shadows moving behind it, but it was impossible to say how many exactly. Greg's silent cursing at that unfortunate fact would have put even the toughest sailor to shame.

_'What now?'_, John mouthed and the older man bit his lip, thinking, before gesturing for the doctor to position himself on the left side of the door while he himself took the right. How bloody long could it possibly take for Sally and the rest of his team to realise they were gone? God, he'd never shout at Sherlock again, sometimes they really were fucking slow.

"How many others?" someone behind the door demanded, following the question with a painful-sounding slap.

There was spitting and then Sherlock's familiar baritone voice drifted through to them, not lacking its usual scathing undertones. "You broke the index finger of your left hand at least twice during your adolescence."

"How-"

"It's what he does, ignore it." came another man's voice. The leader, Greg would recognise that little shit even if he was piss drunk. He'd hauled his arse in for questioning on at least half a dozen occasions, so far without any permanent results. Well, _that_ was going to change after tonight, he'd make sure of it.

"Where's your lil' friend, then?" The first man again, now sounding faintly amused and a bit smug. "He abandon you? Say, what I've always wondered; he a top or a bottom? Goes on and on about how 'brilliant' and 'amazing' you are in that blog o' his, always thought that very sweet. Couldn't figure out if 'e'd prefer to take up the arse or the other way ' round, though."

Greg didn't have to turn his head, he was able to _feel_ John rolling his eyes at the washed-out topic.

On the other side of the door, Sherlock let out a low, amused chuckle. "Having had the pleasure of your company for the past hour, I can safely say that you wouldn't be able to figure out a person's sexual preferences if you caught them in the act."

If the situation hadn't been somewhat grave and dangerous, Greg would have burst out laughing. John too, from the looks of him. The kidnapper, however, seemed to need a little longer to piece together exactly how he'd just been insulted - which only helped to prove the message of the insult.

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"Obviousl-"

The sound of teeth smacking together hardly had Greg wince in sympathy and tighten his hand around his weapon.

"You wanna take that back?" the seemingly furious man spat and Sherlock choked, his next words barely audible over his struggle of getting enough oxygen into his lungs.

"Act-...actually, I...was talking abo-...'bout _both_ of you. Both of...you, standing wi-...with your _backs_ to...to the do-"

Greg and John leapt into action, working synchronously in pushing open the door and training their guns on the two startled men, who'd whirled around at the sound, hands twitching for their own guns.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you." Greg barked and quirked a challenging eyebrow. He'd wonder about how Sherlock knew he and John had been standing there later after-

All it took was half a second; the leader lunged at John, who went down with a startled _umpf_, but landed a punch shortly after, eliciting a cry of pain from the man on top of him. Greg watched them from the corner of his eyes, keeping his main focus on the second guy, but he needn't have worried. Sherlock used the momentary lack of attention towards his own person, rose from the chair he was sitting on with his usual grace, picked up a piece of pipe from the floor next to him - cuffs hanging from one wrist, Greg noticed with a grin - and expertly knocked out his 'guard'.

"Morons." the detective sniffed haughtily, gazing down at the pipe and quickly dropping it with a small wrinkle of his nose. "_Ugh, John! _Did you pick up a new bottle of disinfectant like I asked you to?"

"Like you _ordered_ me to?" John asked from his position sitting on the drug lord's back and Greg quickly kneeled down next to them, cuffing the man. "But yeah, I did."

"Good." Sherlock nodded. Then, staring down at himself where the blood from a split lip was dripping onto his collar; "This was my favourite shirt."

* * *

The nurse almost fled the room after cleaning the cut across Sherlock's eyebrow, visibly holding back tears.

"Was that really necessary?" Greg sighed, pressing a thumb into his closed eye - headache fast approaching.

"There is no need for me to be here in the first place." Sherlock mumbled sulkily.

Greg decided not to point out that they were here because Sherlock needed stitches and that John couldn't fix him up because he had a severely worried fiancée to calm down a few rooms down the hall. They'd had that particular argument exactly eight times since arriving at the A&E forty minutes earlier. Instead he took a deep breath, figuring he'd deliver his usual speech about recklessness and causing trouble by running off - which Sherlock would completely disregard, of course.

He hesitated, though, when Sherlock let out a tired huff and, without looking up, took Greg's hand that was resting on the examination table next to him and linked their fingers.

"Sherlock-"

The detective tugged at their now joined hands until Greg got the hint and stepped closer, allowing Sherlock to press his forehead against the older man's chest. He hissed and shifted a bit when the motion put pressure on his wound, but soon found a position he deemed acceptable with his ear resting above Greg's heart and his free arm settling around his waist. He hummed contentedly and yeah, Greg was so not going to manage that speech now.

"You okay?" he asked instead, cradling the back of Sherlock's head, gently rubbing his thumb over the nape of the detective's neck.

"Mm." Sherlock breathed, sounding as if he was on the verge of drifting off right there against Greg. Which wasn't that far-fetched, with the adrenaline now mostly out of his system and all. Well, the being sleepy part wasn't, the cuddled up to Greg part was new. Not unwelcome, though.

And if it had been anyone else, anyone but Sherlock Holmes, Greg would have taken it as a pretty clear sign as to what was happening. Sherlock, on the other hand, was an enigma, utterly unreadable. Was this genuine affection? Or tiredness? Or a simple trick to get out of yet another scolding? Greg couldn't be sure.

Taking his chances, he placed a kiss on top of the detective's messy mop of curls, lingering for just a moment. Sherlock's answer was a snore.

Right.

Well.

That was fucking inconclusive, wasn't it? Typical bloody Sherlock.


	4. Remembering

**A/N:** Even though I clearly don't deserve their awesomeness, the very talented john_n_dean over on AO3 has agreed to beta for this story and keep me from completely slaughtering the English language. A big **Thank You!** to you wonderful human being!

Now, I feel I need to point this out, because discussions about sexuality, gender etc. can get _very_ ugly _very_ fast. As you can see from the tags, I've decided to put Sherlock somewhere on the demisexual spectrum, which, in a hugely simplified manner of speaking, means he only ever feels sexual attraction/desire for people he was formed a deep personal connection with - if at all. The exact interests, desires and attractions vary from person to person and my take on it does most certainly _not_ apply to everyone who identifies as demisexual.

Believe me, I know how fucking confusing sexuality and everything it entails can be from personal experience and I don't mean to offend anyone with this fic. Sherlock has a hard time figuring himself out, which I tried to make clear in this chapter, and the results are not pretty. You've been warned. If you're still pissed at me after reading this because you feel I have offended you in some way, well, then we're all just going to have to live with it, won't we?

* * *

**Chapter Summary:** Welcome to the confusingly twisted mind of teenage Sherlock and its struggle with differentiating love and lust.

* * *

**Warnings:** swearing, drugs, sex, non-con/rape

* * *

**Remembering **

_Oxford, August 1995_

Sherlock tilted his head, squinting at the night sky, trying to follow the line of Victor's pointing finger. After a moment, he sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't see it."

Next to him on the grass, Victor chuckled and dropped his hand before rolling over on top of the curly-haired teen, elbows on either side of Sherlock's face. He smiled at Sherlock and bent down, rubbing their noses together.

"What." It wasn't really a question and Sherlock huffed at his apparently abrupt and complete lack of eloquence. But the older teen's breath was hot on his face, making it strangely hard to focus on anything else all of a sudden.

"Beautiful," Victor whispered hoarsely, gently rubbing his thumbs over prominent cheekbones. Sherlock scowled at the compliment, causing Victor to smooth away the lines of his frown before pressing their foreheads together with a happy little hum. "Beautiful," he repeated and closed his lips over Sherlock's plump pout.

Sherlock froze. Victor was brilliant and amazing and clever and Sherlock's only friend. He made Sherlock laugh and never got angry with Sherlock and his antics and he helped Sherlock through every single one of his dark moods. And Sherlock did not want Victor to leave. He didn't think he would survive it if Victor left.

"Sherlock?" Victor looked concerned as he stroked a hand through Sherlock's curls, one eyebrow quirked questioningly. "Are you all right? You have... _oh my God_, you have done this before, haven't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock assured quickly and brought his arms around the other teen, firmly holding him in place. He had done this before. This and much more, but he hadn't liked any of it. He was a physically healthy seventeen-year-old who didn't like kissing or groping or frottage or penetration. He had concluded quite some time ago that there had to be something seriously wrong with his brain. As a child, his parents had dragged him from one psychiatrist to the next, determined to find out why their little boy was the way he was. Obviously, this lack of sexual attraction and desire was just another symptom on the long list of mental health issues Sherlock had been diagnosed with over the years.

Normal people, people who weren't Sherlock, liked kissing and touching and everything those actions promised. The normal people always got angry and called him weird when Sherlock told them he didn't like those things. And they all eventually left when Sherlock didn't reciprocate or was passive or downright refused to participate at all.

The others hadn't mattered, though. They'd been unimportant, just experiments. But Victor was special. Victor was _everything_ and Sherlock was fairly sure that he was in love with Victor and love meant compromise. So Sherlock would give Victor this piece of himself and Victor would stay and, surely, that was worth the discomfort and disgust Sherlock would feel for making this sacrifice for the other teen.

So Sherlock craned his neck and captured Victor's mouth again, prying the older teen's lips open with a firm press of his tongue.

"Sherlock." Victor pulled back and he didn't look happy. Sherlock would have to do better. He tried to move in for another kiss, but Victor cupped his face and stroked his brow. "If you don't want to... we don't have to... Sherlock, do you _want_ this?"

No. "Yes," Sherlock growled instead and pushed, flipping them and straddling Victor's hips. Victor's hands came up to hold on to Sherlock's side and neck, pulling him down into a kiss and _oh_.

Victor kissed Sherlock's full lower lip and it felt nice. He kissed Sherlock's throat and that felt nice too. He rubbed circles over Sherlock's lower back and pushed his hips up against Sherlock's own and that felt _very_ nice and Sherlock moaned, startling himself.

And Victor laughed, pushing Sherlock away to get up and then link their fingers. He took Sherlock back to his room where they kissed some more and groped and rutted against each other and everything felt _spectacular_. They both came into their pants, sprawled all over each other, flushed and panting and content.

Dazed and high on endorphins and oxytocin, Sherlock decided that, yes, he very much liked sex and that, maybe, he'd just had to get used to it first. And Sherlock was thrilled that, at least in this aspect, he was perfectly normal and exactly like everyone else.

When Victor didn't tell him to leave after they'd come back to themselves and gathered Sherlock in his arms instead, that was good.

When they woke up in each other's arms for the first time the morning after, that was good.

When Sherlock came down Victor's throat a week later, a little more than a babbling mess, that was good.

When Victor told Sherlock that he was beautiful and amazing and gorgeous, that was good.

When they had proper, penetrative sex for the first time and Victor kept repeating that he loved Sherlock with every thrust, that was good.

When Sherlock told Victor that he loved him back and Victor hugged him so hard it hurt, that was good.

When Victor's parents decided to move back to America and take Victor with them, that was a bit not good.

When they lay in bed together for the last time on the evening before Victor's flight and Sherlock cried and couldn't stop, that was even less good.

When they both cried and clung to each other at the airport, that was the least good thing ever.

When Victor wrote or called and Sherlock ignored him because it hurt too much, Sherlock had no idea what that was.

And when Victor finally stopped writing and calling, Sherlock tried cocaine for the first time.

* * *

_London, Christmas Eve 1996_

Henry was sweet and kind and completely infatuated with Sherlock. He was also stupid and slow and getting on Sherlock's nerves. But Sherlock was _bored_ and his parents' annual gathering was _boring_ and Mycroft's fretting was _boring_, so Sherlock let Henry pull him into an empty room and crash their mouths together.

It was wet and sloppy and disgusting and Sherlock was confused. He didn't like it and he couldn't get hard, even with Henry on his knees in front of him and his mouth around him. He made up an excuse of having had a bit too much to drink and let Henry fuck him against the closest wall and hated every single second of it.

After Henry had spilled himself inside him, Sherlock left without another word and spent the next two hours under the shower, crying and shouting and scrubbing his skin red and raw and being absolutely miserable with the realisation that he was broken after all.

* * *

_Oxford, February 1997_

Mateo was dark-haired and blue-eyed with tanned skin and pearly white teeth. The Spanish exchange student was chased by girls and boys alike, but for reasons unfathomable to Sherlock, he had chosen _him_ of all people. Sherlock felt special.

So, naturally, when Mateo asked, Sherlock said yes and sucked him off in the empty biology lab. Mateo was too rough and too fast and too big. Sherlock strained and choked and gagged and his jaw continued to hurt for three days straight.

They didn't talk about it after, which was fine. Mateo left for Barcelona after a semester and took a girl called Janet with him, which was fine too.

* * *

_Hawaii, summer 1997_

The heat was oppressive, causing rivers of sweat to run down Sherlock's face and bare chest, leaving him wet and sticky and severely annoyed. He groaned and draped an arm across his eyes, vowing that he'd murder Mycroft for blackmailing him into coming along on their family vacation. It wasn't as if the family spent the time together anyway, his brother had locked himself inside their shared and surprisingly well temperature-controlled hotel room to work while his parents were out sight-seeing or some such nonsense.

With a sigh, Sherlock heaved himself up and was almost across the inner court of the hotel when he suddenly smelled it. All it took was ducking under a few rails and pushing his way through an 'Employees Only' door to find one of the pool boys with a very suspicious cigarette clammed between his lips. The teenager stared at him with wide, shocked eyes.

"Care to share?" Sherlock asked, already plucking it from his mouth to take a drag. He didn't worry in the slightest why the other teen didn't protest, figuring he was afraid to lose his job if he refused to share his drugs with the guest who had discovered him with said drugs.

They smoked in companionable silence and when the pool boy pulled open another door and retrieved a bottle of white wine from the cold room and raised an inquiring eyebrow, well, who was Sherlock to say no? One bottle turned into two and then three. When Sherlock asked if the other teen intended to go back to work drunk, he just shrugged. He said the pay was shit anyway and tugged at Sherlock's bathing trunks until he was close enough to kiss.

Tipsy and high, Sherlock was naked before he quite realised it. When the other teen sank into him after only the most minimal of preparations, he shouted out in shocked pain. He pushed and cursed and said no, but was told in no uncertain terms he hadn't said no to the kissing and that he shouldn't act like he didn't want this and not to be a damn tease.

So Sherlock just lay there and took everything and told himself that this wasn't so bad. That it wasn't like he enjoyed sex anymore even if he chose to do it out of his free will and that, in the end, it wasn't all that different anyway.

The pool boy came fast and hard, his pulling out making Sherlock wince. He smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth and told him he knew where to find him if he wanted to have another go.

Sherlock stumbled back to his room and flopped face first on the bed. He ignored Mycroft's worried questions and fell asleep feeling like a complete freak of nature.

* * *

_Oxford, March 1998_

Sebastian was a loud, spoilt, obnoxious brat. Sherlock decided he really rather liked him when, after he'd angrily deduced and spilled all of the other young man's secrets in front of at least a dozen people, Sebastian had just grinned that crooked grin of his and asked Sherlock out for a pint.

They quickly became inseparable and trouble followed them wherever they went - which was mostly places they weren't supposed to be. Sherlock picked locks while Sebastian stood guard. Sherlock bit his lower lip and distracted the obviously interested economics professor with flirtatious glances from under heavy lids while Sebastian ransacked the man's office in search of the answers for the finals. Sherlock wrote the first year student's chemistry papers while Sebastian stayed on top of who owed them what kind of favour in return. Sebastian was all smiles and good manners to stall Sherlock's parents while Sherlock hurried around his room and flushed his stash.

And then Sherlock kissed Sebastian while Sebastian was sprawled out on Sherlock's bed with his eyes closed and a joint hanging from one hand, because Sherlock had a very big crush on Sebastian and needed Sebastian to stay with him.

After a short moment of confusion, Sebastian dropped the still burning joint and smiled, flipping them over and pinning Sherlock down into the mattress. Sherlock prepared himself to shut off his mind like he'd trained himself to do and waited for the discomfort to set in and prayed for the act to be over quickly.

But when Sebastian nuzzled against his neck and sucked a mark over his collarbone, Sherlock felt a tingling he hadn't felt in ages and realised he was already half hard. So he went with it, puzzled as to why sex was now a good thing again, but also extremely glad because it meant he could give Sebastian what Sebastian wanted without hating himself afterwards and would even get to enjoy himself.

They fucked like they did all other things; hard, dirty, laughing and everywhere they weren't supposed to do it, including the headmaster's office on two separate occasions.

Sherlock walked in on Sebastian balls deep in Emily Hunt six weeks later and practically fled the campus. Sebastian found him in one of their hang-outs four hours later, strung-out and barely conscious. He held Sherlock's shivering body and swore that he hadn't known about Sherlock's feelings, that he'd thought it was casual for the both of them, that he cared about Sherlock a huge fucking deal, but that he didn't love him. He apologised for hurting Sherlock and misreading the signals. He kissed Sherlock's brow and brushed sweaty curls away from his forehead, whispering soothing, reassuring nothings until Sherlock came back to himself. He swallowed hard, eyes moist, and told Sherlock he didn't want to lose his best friend and then they fucked in the dirty bathroom with Sebastian being gentler and more considerate than he'd ever been before. It made everything so much worse.

The next day, Sebastian sat Sherlock down and said that he'd been thinking and that it would be best if they stopped with the physical part of their 'relationship' in order to avoid hurting Sherlock any more than he'd already been hurt and to save what was left of their friendship. Sherlock snapped at him not to go all mushy all of a sudden and that it was all fine. They continued having fairly bad sex and grew so far apart that neither of them bothered to stay in contact when Sherlock graduated that summer.

* * *

_Summer 1998_

Finally back home for good, curled up on his childhood bed with an empty syringe discarded on his nightstand, Sherlock wept. He couldn't stop. Not even when Mycroft, clearly confused and out of his depth, sat down beside him and stroked his curls, asking how he could help. But Sherlock didn't know how and Mycroft didn't know either, so he told his little brother the only true thing he'd learned so far in his life; that caring wasn't an advantage, that all lives ended and all hearts were broken.

It was the first, only and last piece of advice from Mycroft that Sherlock ever took to heart.

* * *

_Autumn 1998 - December 31st 1999_

The time from the end of his university days to the start of the new millennium was a fuzzy blaze of alcohol, drugs and sex. The drugs were heaven and the sex was hell and the alcohol was what kept Sherlock sane in-between.

Emotions were dangerous and sentiment was useless, so he stopped having the former and believing in the latter.

His body was nothing more than transport, so that's how he treated it.

Sex was what everyone else liked and engaged in. It was a means to an end, an incentive and a good reason for people to tolerate him, so he endured it.

Sherlock was beautiful, skilled, brilliant and a fast learner, so the men kept coming; Oliver forgot to collect money for the cocaine after a blow job, Nick let him crash on his sofa if he let the man screw him into said sofa, Shawn always got what he wanted anyway, Hunter and Daniel had always been eager to try a threesome and paid handsomely, Thom held him afterwards when he cried and told him how much he loved him and all the other ones, names long forgotten or deleted, had had their reasons too.

And then Sherlock walked into the right place at the right time. He shouted at a sergeant and told him what an idiot he was for not seeing the right clues and got arrested because he was high and raging around a crime scene. At the end of the night, he was taken home to sleep everything off in Lestrade's guest room, listening to the rest of London celebrate the beginning of the new year.

Lestrade thought he was both the most brilliant and the most irritating person on the face of the earth. He forced him to get clean and rewarded him with cases. Lestrade was kind and took him in again when he relapsed - the first, second and third time - ignoring the protests of his wife. Lestrade was funny and Lestrade cared and Sherlock fell for him almost instantly and held on to him tightly.

But Lestrade also had a wife and had no interest in Sherlock in that way. Which was all right as long as he was in Sherlock's life and Sherlock didn't do feelings anymore anyway. So Sherlock married his work and met John and, somehow, everything was more or less fine. Until he came back from the dead and Lestrade was very single and very available and Sherlock's brain completely short-circuited with the mere possibility of what could be.

* * *

Sprawled out on their sofa in 221B, Sherlock listened to John busying himself in the kitchen with making tea and wondered how Lestrade was going to break his heart and if he'd ever be able to pull himself together again afterwards. Because Sherlock knew that he did not possess the strength to walk away from this, and there was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that, eventually, Gregory Lestrade would throw him away like all the others had and leave him burned and broken beyond repair.

* * *

**A/N:** Sherlock is demi_sexual_ and homo_romantic_, just in case anyone was wondering. I'd like to think that he was propositioned by a girl once, took one look at her and went _"Nope, not really my area."_, but that's just me being silly. At nearly four o'clock in the morning. So... ignore that, I guess.

Comments make me giddy with joy, just a quick reminder.

Nighty night, darlings!


	5. Celebrating

******A/N:** Many thanks to my wonderful beta _**john_n_dean**_ over on AO3 for giving my writing the final touch. You are awesome.

* * *

**Chapter Summary:** Greg and Sherlock's relationship moves forward. A bit. Well... it's complicated.

* * *

**Warnings:** swearing, a tiny bit of smut

* * *

**Celebrating**

If Greg were a less decent man, he'd probably have told her what a fucking cunt she was for doing this to him. But he wasn't. He was actually a pretty nice bloke, all things considered. So when his ex-wife texted him an hour before he was supposed to pick up the boys to inform him that she'd taken them to her mother's in Dublin for the holidays and intended to stay there over New Year's, he simply sighed and promised to call the next day to wish his sons a Happy Christmas.

Which is why Greg lay draped over his cheap uncomfortable sofa in his cheap shabby flat with a bottle of cheap disgusting scotch sitting on the floor by his head, feeling very sorry for himself. He'd get majorly pissed and probably pass out on his cheap smelly rug and wake up with a massive hangover, but right at that moment, completely alone and even more lonely than usual on the day before Christmas, he really couldn't bring himself to give a shit. He'd feel bad about his behaviour and be ashamed of himself when he was sober again, Greg decided. He downed another mouthful of that piss the small 24-hour-shop down the street had had on sale.

His phone chimed with an incoming message and Greg groaned, debating wether it was worth reading or not. It could have been work, but then again he was in no state to go in anyway. He'd keel over and throw up and not necessarily in that order. Maybe it was his sister, sending another photo of his niece and nephew building a sandcastle or eating ice cream or whatever else people who fled the British cold - and their brothers! - and escaped to the Bahamas did on the day before fucking Christmas. Either way, it didn't look promising and it was another sign that Greg was a bloody masochist when he reached out, plucked the phone from its place on the coffee table and, with a swipe of his thumb, opened the text.

**'Bored. Case? SH' **

Right. John was away at his sister's with Mary. And Greg was not working tonight. **'Not working tonight. Ask Dimmock. GL'**

The reply came almost immediately. **'Dimmock won't work with me. Cold case? SH'**

Greg considered this for a moment. On one hand, he was loath to get up and drive all the way across London, because it was snowing and he was a bit buzzed and still feeling very sorry for himself. On the other hand, though, the prospect of seeing Sherlock caused a crooked grin to make its way across his face and the butterflies in his stomach to do a silly little dance of joy. God, he was pathetic, wasn't he? And he didn't actually have any cold cases, either. Bugger.

**'Sorry, there's nothing. GL'** he wrote and then, on a whim, sent another message asking, **'Want me to come over? GL'**

**'You just said there was no case. Why would you come over if there was no case? SH'** Sherlock's obvious confusion made him snort into another swig of vodka. He spluttered for a moment while rereading it before he managed to type out a reply. **'I meant for some company, you tit. GL'**

**'Why would I want company? SH'** Well, that wasn't so funny anymore, Greg thought sadly. He refrained from writing something overly cheesy about how much he loved to spend time with the younger man or how he loved to just hear him talk or how he, occasionally, would get hard thinking about how much he loved hearing Sherlock's deep, silky smooth voice. With a slightly disgusted nose-wrinkle, he set the alcohol down on the floor again and pushed it a bit further away out of reach. If he thought that _that_ was cheesy instead of creepy, he'd probably had enough to drink for the moment. **'No reason, just thought I'd ask. GL'**

Ah, yes. Greg was officially an idiot. Why indeed would Sherlock want to spend his evening with a depressed, middle-aged dork who kept fantasising about cuddles on the sofa and lazy Sunday mornings in bed with a man who clearly wasn't interested in him? He huffed and buried his face in a cushion, grumbling nonsensical strings of words until, suddenly, he decided that this was, a bit at least, Sherlock's fault. For kissing him in the first place. And then being all sweet and lovely and approachable during their last case. Yeah, Sherlock Holmes was a proper tosser.

He startled when the mobile he was still clutching vibrated again and felt extremely disgusted with himself when he couldn't bring himself not to read whatever snide comment the tosser detective had for him.

**'Fine. Out of milk. SH'**

Greg read the text once, twice and a third time with his mouth hanging open. When the message finally sank in, he jumped to his feet - only swaying a tiny bit - and raced from the flat at a tempo he hadn't even realised he was able to achieve.

* * *

After a quick stop at the super market and a short detour to the Chinese restaurant on the end of Baker Street - because he was fairly sure Sherlock still didn't feed himself properly when John wasn't around - Greg let himself into 221B with the spare key he had for emergencies and fake drugs busts.

He was freezing and dripping wet. He stomped his feet and ruffled his hair before ascending the stairs in order not to drag too much snow inside. He was already halfway up to the flat when he noticed how dark it was, not even the ususal light in the hall being turned on. And it was cold, too.

"It's almost as cold in here as it's out there," Greg said in way of greeting, depositing his bags in the kitchen before making his way through to the sitting room. Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa in his characteristically dramatic way, dressing gown hanging low on one shoulder and pooling a bit on the floor, with one arm draped over his face. The stretch had caused his shirt to slip up and reveal some marble skin, a belly button and a trail of dark, soft-looking hair trailing down low to-

Greg shook himself and blinked a few times. Not the right moment to think about following that hair or dipping his tongue into that navel or-... _no!_ Stop! God, Greg thought, this evening was going to be torture, wasn't it?

"Heat's out," Sherlock said, sounding bored and a bit puzzled by that.

"Well, did you pay the heat bill? Have you checked the boiler?" Greg sighed, perching on the arm of one of the chairs. That caused Sherlock to lift his arm and frown at him.

"John pays the bills. He's in charge of all things monetary and maintenance."

"John's not here," the older man pointed out and Sherlock _humpf_ed, unimpressed. Greg noticed the fine tremors shaking Sherlock's body and groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "How long have you been lying there?" he asked as he got up and walked over to crouch next to the detective. He reached out to take one of Sherlock's hands. They were, as expected, ice cold. "Christ, how are you even alive?"

"I was thinking!" Sherlock defended himself, as if that explained everything. Which it probably did, in his opinion. Not so much in Greg's, though.

"Right. Let's get you sorted, then."

Sherlock huffed and grumbled under his breath, but Greg ignored him and went about his new task; warmth. He went downstair to get some logs from Mrs Hudson's supply, because of course Sherlock didn't have anything as pedestrian as fire wood in his home. Apart, of course, from an ongoing experiment on the kitchen table involving some sort of fungi, which Greg was _not_ to touch. He started a fire, humming agreeably when it began to flicker and crackle. Next he gathered up all the pillows, duvets and quilts he could find, throwing them down on the rug in front of the fireplace.

"Come on, up you get," he urged Sherlock, who was apparently colder than he tried to let on, because he went willingly and plopped down close to the fire with only a minimal amount of fuss. The detective tugged one of the quilts tight around himself while Greg went upstairs to change into some dry clothes. Working with John and Sherlock had taught him pretty early on to store a spare set of everything up in one of the doctor's empty drawers. Something he was immensly glad about as he pulled on some pyjama pants and a t-shirt along with a hoodie and two pairs of socks - he was fairly sure his toes were only a mere step away from suffering from frostbite and falling off.

Sherlock was already into the food when he trotted back downstairs, munching contentedly and drinking-

"Cognac?"

"Mycroft's birthday present," Sherlock shrugged, producing a second mug and offering it to Greg as he sat down beside him. Of course they were going to drink what looked like extremely expensive liquor out of old, clipped mugs. Not that Greg was complaining, mind you, it seemed oddly fitting and was heaps better than the cheap crap he'd been gulping down at home.

"Wait. Mycroft's birthday present? Like, one he gave you or one he got and you somehow obtained?"

Sherlock smirked into his drink. "He was being unbearably irritating during 'family dinner' last night."

"You're a twat," Greg snorted, blinking innocently at the narrow-eyed look that statement earned him.

They ate in companionable silence, huddled under mountains of blankets, and watched the fire crinkle away, bathing the room in a warm, golden light. The instant Greg sat down his container of noodles, Sherlock pounced, ending up with his legs on either side of Greg's thighs and his hands cupping the man's face. He leaned in, bringing their lips together for a tentiative and almost shy kiss, rubbing his long fingers over Greg's jaw. When he pulled back, there was that vulnerable expression Greg'd spotted after their first kiss again.

"What are you doing?" Greg breathed, their mouths a only a hair's breadth away.

Sherlock managed to frown, scowl and look extremely sheepish and offended at the same time. Which was actually kind of impressive, even if not exactly what Greg had hoped to achieve with the question.

"I thought that was fairly obvious," the younger man mumbled and made to move away, but Greg swiftly wound his arms around Sherlock's waist to hold him in place.

"Hey. Come on, it's fine," he soothed, trailing one hand up and down Sherlock's spine. "Was just surprised, that's all," he murmured and then he stretched and kissed what was undoubtedly going to be a snarky response right off Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock sighed against his lips, practically melting against Greg, and deepened the kiss. He shifted _just so_ until he could wrap his legs around Greg's hips and cross his ankles behind the man's back. Which was a good thing. A very good thing indeed. Greg parted his lips in invitation and Sherlock followed suit, brushing their tongues together and setting every single one of Greg's nerves on fire in the process. They drew back for air and simply stared at each other for a moment before diving in again simultaniously.

Their kisses grew more desperate, more _needy_, with every passing second. Greg slid his hands under the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and squeezed that lush arse he'd had inappropriate fantasies about for the last fucking decade, enjoying the feel of Sherlock's surprised gasp. Sherlock's hips moved foreward almost of their own accord, bringing their groins together. Both of them gasped at that and Greg pushed up, chasing more friction and getting it when Sherlock began to rut against him. They established a slow, leisurly rhythm, the detective still more focused on devouring the older man's mouth than getting off, it seemed. Which Greg was absolutely fine with.

He sprawled his hands over Sherlock's back, scratching lightly and causing a whole body shiver to run through the detective. A surprisingly satisfying accomplishment. He abandoned the younger man's lips in favour of his throat, sucking gently before biting down, not hard enough to leave a mark, but going by Sherlock's strangled _"Nngh!"_ it definitely stung. Greg smiled against the slightly red skin, very pleased with himself.

"More!" Sherlock growled, pupils blown-wide with arousal when they locked gazes. Greg moaned but was in a rather induldging mood and complied. He only moved back once he was sure the bruise at the base of the detective's throat would be visible for days. Some small part of his endorphine-flushed brain felt ashamed at how impossibly hard the thought of Sherlock walking around marked as his was making him. Another, less rational part screamed at him to lay claim and take, which was exactly what he intended to do.

Greg brought a bit of space between their chests, eliciting a severely annoyed and displeased grunt from Sherlock, to shuck his shirt before starting to work on the other man's. He tugged it away over his head in one swift movement, causing wild, dark curls to stick up in every possible direction. Unable to resist, he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, rubbing the pads of his finger over the detective's scalp. The reaction was instantaneous. Sherlock dropped his forehead to Greg's shoulder with a deep, humming moan and went completely limp. Boneless. Pliant under Greg's hands.

"Good thing you like that," Greg chuckled softly and continued his ministrations, curling strands of hair around his fingers before releasing them again, stroking behind Sherlock's ears and caressing the nape of his neck. "'Cause I really like doing it."

Sherlock whimpered against him. He began showering Greg's neck with soft, tiny kisses, interrupted ever so often by a shudder or shiver if the older man came across a particularly sensitive spot.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Greg groaned after an especially jerky movement of Sherlock's which aligned their cocks perfectly. He grabbed the detective's chin and moved his face to crash their mouths back together. It took him a moment to notice that Sherlock wasn't reciprocating, but once the realisation managed to penetrate the thick fog of arousal in his brain, he quickly pulled back. "What? What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked pained with his eyes pressed shut. He shook his head and waved a slender hand in his familiar 'perfectly fine' gesture.

Greg didn't buy it for a second. "Bullshit! Tell me what's wrong. Please?"

"Don't do that," Sherlock sighed and covered his face with his hands. Hiding away from the other man.

"Do what?" Greg demanded, his voice stricken with concern. He carefully placed his hands on Sherlock's upper thighs, relieved when he didn't flinch away from the contact.

"The thing you did!" Sherlock snapped impatiently from the seclusion behind his palms.

Greg took a deep breath and counted to five before speaking again. Shouting back would most definitely be counterproductive. This was a dance on the knife's edge and there was a chance of falling down either side. He knew what Sherlock getting defensive and snappish meant; the detective was scared. What of, Greg hadn't the faintest.

"We did quite a lot of... _things_, Sherlock. You'll have to be more specific."

The detective hissed in frustration, but dropped his hands and lowered his gaze, his eyes uselessly roaming over Greg's torso. "The compliment thing. Don't do that."

"What?" Greg frowned. He'd started imagining the worst, having somehow physically hurt Sherlock or something along those lines. But this was unexpected, to say the very least. "You don't want me to tell you that you're gorgeous?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Lestrade!" Sherlock growled angrily and, _shit!_, Greg could practically see the emotion draining out of his expression, leaving only a blank mask in its wake.

"But... why?" he asked and cringed at Sherlock's answering sneer.

"Isn't it considered terrible bedside manner to not respect your partner's wishes?" the younger man laughed, a horrible, empty sound.

Greg's mouth fell open in shock. "_You_ are lecturing _me_ about what counts as appropriate behaviour?"

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock decided and made to stand up, but Greg quickly grabbed his wrists and tugged him back down.

"Yeah, I agree. Utterly ridiculous," he nodded before timidly kissing the corner of the detective's mouth. Sherlock was rigid against him, his cold, detached eyes boring into Greg's. Greg ignored the put-upon disinterest and pulled the younger man against his chest instead, weaving his fingers back into his hair. The minutes trickled by slowly, but gradually Sherlock relaxed again and circled his arms around Greg in a light embrace.

Greg lowered them both to the floor, he on his back with Sherlock sprawled over him, never ceasing his soothing caresses. Sherlock nosed along his jaw and pressed a kiss to the underside of his chin before resting his head on Greg's chest, his ear over the older man's heart.

The extreme reaction to a bit of praise was worrying and definitely needed further investigation. For the moment, though, Greg was content to simply hold Sherlock and have him close by. To play with his hair and enjoy the sleepy but happy murmurs and sighs coming from the detective.

* * *

They must have dozed off, because the next thing Greg caught was the chiming of church bells, announcing the new day.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, intent on letting the man get some much needed rest if he was actually asleep for once.

"Mm?" came a half-awake murmur which followed by a brush of lips over his Adam's apple.

"Happy Christmas," Greg smiled into the mob of curls tickling his face. He laughed out loud at Sherlock's dismissive snort.

"Stupid, useless traditions-"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock sighed, nuzzling into Greg's neck. "Happy Christmas," he yawned against warm skin before lifting his head just enough to coax Greg into a deep, slow tangle of tongues.

Greg wound one arm around Sherlock's middle. He used his other hand the cup the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's atlas, making the detective hum appreciatively against his lips.


End file.
